Thursday, 19 April 2007

Saturday, 7 April 2007

I used to live in a palace worth 12 thousand million Lindens. All rooms faced north and the sun would never set in my little empire cos I had natural light lamps everywhere, even in the dungeon, so my sexual slaves wouldn't suffer from seasonal affective disorder. My closest neighbour was a windmill 10 miles south so I felt alone and vulnerable. I read too many psychology books and was convinced the only way to find happiness was to live in a community, with cats and juggling hippies, so I packed up and moved to Sanford.

Now I am in this 6 meters square room and my clothes fall over my head every time I sneeze, but I'm happy cos I belong. I look out of the window and smile at the hippies. They shout "come Debbie, come enjoy the sun!" but I stay in, all naked apart from my mink coat, shinny leather boots and a glass of red wine.

I glued some bubble wrap on my door and sometimes hippies on acid come and pop the bubbles, laughing hysterically, and I laugh with them, popping my own personal bubbles inside my room with the heels of my leather boots. When it happens we connect and feel like one.

Twice a month we have meetings but I never go. I don't really agree on the method used to resolve issues. Persuasion, power of rhetoric, they all imply you are a very articulate person. I'm not articulate. I'm not gonna come down to groan at them like Chewy and even if I could express myself as well as a well-spoken public-school-eco-wacko I know deep inside they are up for themselves, like any other ordinary homo sapiens.

But they are quite keen to save the world (sic) so we are testing these new zero-carbon-emission boilers that burn wooden pellets. The system is so new nobody in the UK has it. It's the first time the company installs them boilers so, guess what, they didn't work for a month and a half. I froze to death in my little box, damning everyone, casting spells on all eco officers. We need to clean them once a week so guess what? Hahaha, yes. They are not sufficiently clean so the pellets get stuck in the tube and die.

I sometimes wonder if I wish to get stuck in the tube and die with them, or if I could maybe stick the officers in the tube with the pellets, but in the end I entertain myself imagining I'm stuck in the tube with someone interesting and the grief fades away.

There's a house meeting next week and I'm coming, but I won't say a word.

Tuesday, 3 April 2007

I'm a hermaphrodite. I feel quite independent cos I can fuck myself with my own big willy. At least I will be sure my children are mine. I'm a wanker with one too many options trying hard to convince the doctors I'm fine with it. Today I went to the sexual health clinic for my by-annual check up, rehearsing my lines, looking forward to the final moment of my appointment when I would finally get multi-coloured, multi-flavoured, ribbed condoms.

As I waited patiently in a baby-blue waiting room full of posters of Chlamydia awareness and help lines, a magazine flew on my lap so I thought it was a divine sign I should read it, and so I did.

There was a man trapped in there. He was a cynical English man, sent to a self-help workshop in order to write an article about it. He started with all those statistics on how miserable the nation feels, especially compared to Denmark. Denmark for those who don't know is a country full of blond semi-gods who can do pretty much anything. Those statistics looked like the ones that produce 54% of the country's GNP so I read it carefully.

He had lessons on compassion, responsibility, wisdom and all the other underrated feelings. He listened to the life stories of happy people and later remarked they were exactly the ones he wouldn't like to be trapped in a lift with. He's a lost case, just like some of his cynical compatriots.

When he sits by the table with his mates, tearing people apart, only laughing if the joke rips off someone's limb, deep in his unconscious he knows evolution already left him behind. He doesn't like to be miserable, but he knows no better. He can't change his patterns and the only thing left for him and his mates is sarcasm.

Now they are all concerned with their serotonin levels. Now they suggest schools teach what for thousands of years has been common sense in the east. They don't know why they feel so bad, especially in the mornings, but he doesn't even suspect when he cracks people's head open with his words he's digging his own grave.

I see the big picture as a river and as we float with the stream of life I wave to the sarcastic people trapped in the bend, like plastic bags and bottles. What a dire strait. I stretch in my ironic boat.